


The Stranger the Fonder

by Tea_is_Not_Them



Series: Avatar Jon (AKA: Other Entities snag the Archivist) [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Happy Ending, Jonathan Sims Can Dance, Jonathan Sims is Short, Light Angst, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Stranger Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Lives, make that a tag, tim and jon are friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_is_Not_Them/pseuds/Tea_is_Not_Them
Summary: Something happened to Jon, but Tim still has to blow up the circus to avenge his brother, Sasha, and Jon. Except, he doesn't have to avenge Jon.
Relationships: Hinted, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Avatar Jon (AKA: Other Entities snag the Archivist) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818751
Comments: 35
Kudos: 417





	The Stranger the Fonder

**Author's Note:**

> So I've stared putting my Instagram and Tumblr names here just in case people want to scream at me XD or give me ideas honestly, or send hatemail, i dont discriminate.
> 
> Insta: tea_is_not_them  
> Tumblr: tea-is-not-them  
> tiktok: teaisnotthem

Elias stormed into the archives with a sour expression, his suit a bit of a mess and hair looks as if he had been gripping on it. He looked very, very angry. His hard maintained untouchable evil boss persona slipped slightly, as he looked like he had just been shot. Though instead of afraid he just looked affronted, like someone stole his favorite tie.

Tim watched. The group of five, Daisy, Basira, Melanie, Martin, and himself, watched as their bosses temper filled the air. Every step he took echoed with malice, he looked very much like he was about to kill everything and everyone in a five mile radius. Or explode. They hoped he'd explode and die. 

They all wondered if it had to do with Jon’s disappearance. 

Elias finally calmed slightly, but only slightly from his few step journey down to the archives, as he stood in front of the group, “The Archivist is gone. He is no longer... useful. I will find a replacement soon.” His eyes scoured the group, eyes lingering on a select two people, leaving them all worried. Basira shivered and glared back at the man, as he finally looked away to survey the group once more.

He left as quickly as he came and left the group of them to ponder what happened to Jon. While some could care a little less than others, there was still general unease about the whole situation. Jon wasn't their favorite but if he was dead... What did that spell out for the rest of them, stuck in this hell of a workplace. 

Jon had been gone for a month, not showing up to work. This was strange, but there had been no trace of him at all, not a text, note, or even a passed out Archivist on the floor. Tim may have gone to his flat, just to check to see if he was stealing secrets and being generally a monster that he was becoming. There was no sign of Jon, his door was unlocked but nothing was there, and it was dusty.

Still they wondered what happened to him. He must have died… That was the only way any of them could quit.

They didn’t want to think about that. They worried, because this … it felt permanent.

\--------

The explosives were set, ready. All Tim had to do was set it off. How Daisy had known where to put explosives, they did not ask, because they did not want to know. They didn't know when the circus would start, since the Knowing was Jon's job, and Jon was dead. So they guesstimated, and hoped.

He did not know how he had gotten inside the circus, inside it’s mazes of tents and colorful bloody streamers, that filled Tim with a rage that drove him forward. It seemed like something he would worry about later, or maybe never if he blows up the place and goes with it. That was kind of the plan actually.

Music was playing but there was no one else in the tent, its neon multicolored walls covered in skin and glitter. The lights were dim, but a spotlight in green and white was flashing over a certain spot in the air. He followed the shades, the shadows leading his eyes to something moving in the air.

Aerial Silks, he thinks they're called, from Danny's old obsession with dancing. They’re a forest green, moving and twisting around someone. The light made them striking and shiny. Every move the silks made seemed like they were moving on their own, that's how fluid the movements were, as if glass could be a liquid. Tim can’t see the person, or thing that was the shape of a person twisting inside of them yet, but he can’t take his gaze away from the show. The person flipped mid air, catching the silks and twisting around, flexible and peaceful. It hummed, as if this was the epitome of joy, as it stretched out and continued it routine.

They stop. Their body upside down as they stare back at him, and Tim suddenly knows whose face he is looking at, even at this range, even a few yards away. There are circular scars mimicking his own, the long hair pinned in a bun that was messy with movement and effort. 

Jon's face stared back at him and he forgot how to breathe, terrified and angry, the feeling of pain, the same pain he has felt before many times lit up like a match in his stomach.

The facsimile of Jon looked at him and then dropped from the silks, landing on its feet like a cat, a small flourish of the hands as if that was the last of a grand trick. It's movements after dropping from the silks were less fluid than when it danced, as if it had to remember how to walk, to be human. It was never human, Tim's mind screams. He wore something that Tim knew Jon would never wear. A leotard with green sweatpants.

The thing that was not Jon smiled, not wide and terrifying, but a true genuine smile that made Tim more uncomfortable than the other options might have. The terror was that it could have been a real one, if this were not a thing parading as his boss. If this thing came into his workplace he might not have ever noticed a change. It grabbed a coat, one that Tim recognized that he gave his boss. He put on glasses, the same Jon always wore, the chains still the same cheap silver knockoffs that he kept from his grandmother.

Tim stood frozen as the Jon that was not Jon practically glided over more gracefully than their tiny boss had ever been, earlier awkwardness forgotten, it’s eyes flickering around like cameras, as if to take in all that Tim. 

“Tim! You’re here.” It had Jon’s voice, though the slight static underlies it. It looked like he had given it a gift, just by being there. It hurt some part of his heart that missed Jon, the old one. The thing wearing his skin reminded him so much of Jon from research, before all of this, who would infodump and then get embarrassed or rant about filing systems. That reminder clenched at his heart. Jon from before this paranoid mess he had become, before his face was stolen. God he misses it.

Finally his voice and mind came back to him and Tim pushed backwards, away from the thing wearing Jon’s skin, “You took three people from me. You won't get away with it.”

Jon looked confused and then went to do damage control, taking a step forward on tiptoes like a ballerina, “Tim. It’s me. You know me, I know it’s different but-”

“No. You’re not Jon. Stop pretending to be him!” He screams now, not caring if anything hears him. He was going to blow this place up.

The thing looked around as if distressed before looking at its hands, “The birthday party. Uh, when you all gave me a bottle of wine as a distraction from the party! Sasha took polaroid pictures, the real Sasha, not replaced one. I got mad at you for lighting candles, trying to be more professional than I felt.”

Tim remembered in vivid detail, but anyone could know that. Jon’s head perked up as if it had heard something, and Tim felt the thing grab his hand and drag him away.

“What-” The thing placed a hand over his mouth and hushed him, pulling him under the stage, hidden away from everything else. The ground scraped his knees as he was dragged under.

“Tim. They can’t see you here. They’ll kill you.” He looked properly scared for Tim. The thing wearing Jon’s skin took his hand away carefully, looking him over, “You have to leave. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Maybe that was when it clicked, the genuine fear that showed on the others face could convince anyone. And, he had the same gait truly. He just was off. Different now. Tim knew that was because he was of Stranger now. For some reason he couldn't find it in himself to hate Jon, even when he was a part of the thing he hated, that took so much from him. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to shout at him and drag him out into the open, set off the detonator as the evil clowns came running, go out with a bang.

Jon’s nails were painted, “I’ll explain everything. I- I didn’t want to go back because I knew no one would want to see me again.”

The words wrenched a part of his stomach, some because it's a slight bit true. Tim might not have wanted to see him, angry about the stalking thing and hatred of monsters. Neither would anyone but Martin, whose crush anyone could see from lightyears away, if they weren't Jon himself. Melanie and Basira and Daisy would have killed him on the spot.

“But you have to live for me to do that so please go-” His voice stopped, the static in the air raising. Tim saw that Jon was looking at the detonator in his hand, his eyes zooming in and then zooming out. 

Jon’s admittedly small hands carefully grabbed the detonator, against Tim’s internal screaming. He looked it over and a myriad of emotions came over his face. Something like fear, resignation, determination, sadness, anger, hatred.

Though, he handed it back to Tim. That was a surprise, to both of them actually, and Tim gripped the thing tight, like he would rather die than let it go again, give away his upper hand.

“Get out of here before you blow it up. I... I will distract them, but as soon as you press that button, run... Get out of here. Now. Please.”

Tim was pulled from under the stage and Jon pointed to a closed flap of the tent. He heard Jon moving back to the silks, and there was a voice that wasn’t Jon's. It was loud and raucous, excitable and terribly familiar. Grimaldi. 

“Hello Little Record! Did You See Anyone?”

“Why Nikola? I’ve been in here practicing all day, and night.”

The voice laughed, grossly pitched and loud, “Oh Silly! If You See Anyone, Kill Them! You’re Doing Great Dancing!” 

There was a sound of agreement and swinging, “Thank you Nikola.” Jon might have even sounded apologetic, as if it were a goodbye. Tim felt his heart wrench at something that looked like genuine care. The same tone he had used with Tim before.

Tim ran out, pressing the button harder than he needed to, and he heard the explosions as he ran faster. He hadn’t expected to survive this, but he also hadn’t expected to see Jon. Things were strange either way, but that should have been expected with who they were dealing with.

The screaming of the clowns kept him from looking behind him.

Somewhere along the way, he had passed out.

\----------

Tim woke up in the archives, on the old cot with a blanket over him. Martin and Daisy were next to him on either side and he blinked awake slowly. Martin stood, probably to grab him something to eat, or to tell the others. Ever the perfect nurse. He grabbed the other’s wrist, to keep him so that he could ask his questions, the ones rattling in his half dead brain.

“How did I get here?” His voice was a bit raspy and he coughed. He must have inhaled some gunpowder or dust... or ashes.

“Uh, someone dropped you off a few days ago. We, we didn't know if you'd wake up.”

Jon. Who dropped him off? It must have been Jon. Did Jon even survive the explosion? He couldn’t have, but Tim couldn't think of anyone else who would have picked him up and knew to bring him to the archives, any other sane person would bring him straight to the hospital. Nothing hurt, but he must have hit his head very hard.

He stood, against the wishes of Daisy and Martin, and looked around. 

“I saw Jon. He’s alive, or he was. He helped me blow up the circus.”

\----------

Jon hummed, flipping three times and ending up in a cradle, the silk caught him last second and he grinned to himself, spinning a little and feeling soft silk wrap around him. He analyzed his own movements, trying not to think about the archives. He does not belong to the Institute anymore, the Eye wouldn’t even let him enter if it was too terribly offended. Though could fear gods get offended? He wondered briefly, before wrapping his legs in silk and pulling himself up again. Like a plastic spider, he mused.

He wondered about it, his Patron buzzing under his skin in the form of cassette tapes and leftover fear from strangers he had petrified. It was remarkably easy to feed the Stranger, and it felt better. It felt full, just to stare at people, to see their eyes dart away, or to see them stare back, as if scared he would disappear of get closer if they looked away. 

He cracked his neck, the metallic noise striking in the quiet studio. Jon had become a regular to this studio, even beginning to work there after knowing he no longer worked at the archives, the room was large and empty, and he had space to practice whatever he wanted. It was freeing.

At one last flip and hanging upside down from his foot, about to finish with a roll jump, he came face to face with someone he didn’t think would find him, hung upside down. 

“Basira?”

\--------

The new Head Archivist found him. And he was hanging upside down from a silk. He flew upwards lighter now than he was before, nimble, using his arms to pull him into a cradle before dropping in front of her landing perfectly. She was watching him and he was waiting for the questions. He hoped that compulsion wouldn’t work on him still, but that may be a bit too much to ask.

“Jon.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re here to talk?”

Basira looked around, her eyes watching the silk dance with the air. She looked at all the entrances and windows suspiciously. Jon sighed slightly, his chest not moving with the sound, “No one else is here. When Tim blew up the circus I was the only one who survived.” 

Something bitter was in his voice, something that stung Basira in a strange way, maybe because he had something akin to kindness from the circus. Nikola cared in a weird way, was nice to him in a way that Elias never was. There was no manipulation either, which Elias dealt in spades. Nikola gave him a chance to escape, even if to spite Elias, a dancer with powerful skin, is more potent than just the skin.

“Why did you help him?” Oh, she could compel people. It felt weird to be on the receiving end. The static from every recorder in his body reacting to the strange feeling was a new experience. Rolling tapes and cameras clicked on and off. 

“Because I don’t want the world to end, no matter the monster I am.” He moved his wrists in a circle, popping them. His fingers cracked as he moved them into fists and back to normal.

Basira watched him, and he found it hard to feel disturbed. She was scared, scared of him not being human. It was easy to feed the Stranger, and she was doing all the work for him. All he had to do was exist, and wasn't that just freeing?

“You have more questions Basira. Ask them.” He had no compulsion anymore, but she still opened her mouth to speak.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Jon looked at her, and gave her the truth, “I was scared. And I didn’t want to go back to a place where I am not wanted nor needed. I left like you all wanted me to. Probably for the better. I mean, I wouldn't be here if I went back, I wouldn't be as happy as I was.” He was allowed to be a little self deprecating and petty, he had been through it. Tim hadn’t answered back at the circus. Jon thought everyone believed him dead, it was better that way.

“You’re coming back with me.”

Jon stepped back, trepidation and slight anger coloring his voice, “No. I can’t I-” 

“Jon, you either come back with me or I’m Daisy to bring you back.”

At that Jon glared, “She’d kill me.”

“Then it’s safer to come with me isn't it?” she adjusted her headwrap, looking expectantly. 

“...Let me get my coat.” 

\---------

Walking into the Archives in his Aerial Silk practice uniform and an oversized coat was less than ideal, also even if the cold didn’t bother him, he wished he had a pair of decent pants on. He knew the static was annoying Basira, but he couldn’t really help it. It was a bit of a nervous thing for him. At least she hadn’t frightened him, the mechanic scream could have deafened her. 

He hoped no one else was in the archives, but he was of course not lucky in that. Martin came out of the breakroom and saw him. His jaw dropped and Jon waved weakly. He missed Martin, more than he should have, since he had hated him at the beginning of working there.

Tim was next, and behind him Daisy. Jon was wary of Daisy, but she looked calm. 

“Jon. You survived.” Tim was concerned sounding, but there was almost a touch of disbelief. 

“Yes I did. I didn’t want to die.” He only lived because he knew what Tim was doing. He was out of the tent in seconds, trying not to cry at the feeling of loss that accompanied the explosives and the screams of people he had become close with, no matter how monstrous they were.

“You brought me here didn’t you.”

Jon took a breath, “I wasn’t going to leave you in the middle of nowhere passed out. I'm not heartless. Well.” He hid his laugh with a fake cough, clearing his throat unnecessarily.

He felt the eyes of everyone and clenched his fist, before looking up and speaking, hair falling in his face, “Let me explain.”

\--------------

“How did you know I was alive, Basira?” Jon asked after he had explained his weird addition to the circus. He left out the parts that would have made him tear up, kept out how much safer he had felt there than here, that would have been rude. Might have made them hate him even more.

Basira turned and left the room and he was about to call after her when she came back with a folder.

“Statements. About something that dances and mimics. They all described you to a T. Long grey streaked hair, green eyes, posh voice.”

Jon looked at the pages, there were about four statements about him in the past two months. He knew exactly who gave them. Out of the four he had only meant to scare one of them, the rest just saw him on the street and freaked out, or in the silk studio, they shouldn’t have broken in anyways. He chose to blame their fear on them instead of himself, something he knew he shouldn't do but did anyway.

There was an apology on his tongue before he was hugged. Tim. Tim was hugging him. He was confused but it was nice, and slowly he let himself be entrapped. 

“I- I didn’t. I thought you all would be better not seeing me…” 

“Shut up. You helped us prevent the end of the world, against your ‘people.’” Time answered. Jon felt someone else hugging them both. It was Martin and he let himself be held, hoping his eyes weren't too glassy, before realizing he couldn't really cry. The sound of crying did come from his throat, the records adjusting to his mood. 

He coughed, trying to make the record stop, when he heard the giggling. They were laughing at him. Jon pouted slightly, and then the hug ended. 

“Well, I can’t come back to work here but. I mean.”

“You aren't working here but you are stuck with us!” Tim clapped his shoulder and he could feel a bit of a smile building.

“Ah of course. I do have a job though, nights at the silk studio.”

Tim gasped, trying to hide his emotions with humor once more, “Jonathan Spooky Sims working at a dance place? You, the literal librarian with bad joints?”

Jon huffed, “Yes well I’ve changed a bit.” The air got a bit more solemn and he realized that he had sounded dour. With a cringe he looked around, at anything but their faces.

“But I can stay here, even if I have to keep my uh, grandpa? Aesthetic?” He sounded very much like an old person trying to quote a vine they don't know. Martin tried to hide a laugh and Tim and Daisy didn’t bother. He smiled a bit, glad that he had done something right.

Tim stopped laughing and then looked at him, “What are you wearing?”

Jon was still wearing a dark green silks outfit and he pulled the jacket closer, a little embarrassed.

“Look at you! Little Gymnast.”

“Tim I am older than you.”

“And you’re shorter, so, little.” 

\--------

Jon had taken to playing music through the cassette player that was his throat, the sounds of a mixed bowl of music filling the archives, making it almost lighter. Everyone contributed to it, making the archives a bit of a musical whiplash zone. It was nice, peaceful, something that showcased his strange without being scary.

Elias had looked at him one day, and grinned, allowing him to stay. Jon wondered what he was planning, though he wanted to know so much that he almost wanted to rip it from the man. Alas he couldn't do that, so he let it drift into the part of his mind full of unanswered questions.

He tended to creep out statement givers, and anyone from upstairs that had to come downstairs to the basement archives to grab something or drop off records, they were all wary of him. He remembers when he had bumped into a person who had gotten lost in the stacks. Jon had fed off this man the night before, and when the man saw his familiar face he screamed, and Jon screamed back in the man’s own voice, startled out of his mind.

Basira had used him as a recorder once. Which he didn’t mind. Hearing statements still put him in a trance, listening to someone else reading them as he recorded them with his insides. It wasn’t the cassette player that had replaced his heart, that one was reserved for moments with his friends that played back when he was bored and alone, the staticky words making him feel warm.

He had taken to listening to his and Martin’s conversations more often than not. No, Jon did not have a crush! He didn't!

Tim was getting better. His stint at the circus had been suicidal at best, and with more people aware of the help he needed, and his revenge played out so well, he was getting better, slowly letting himself become the jokester he was. Though, now he also knew when to let himself feel, without hiding it with humor. Jon was happy for him, and happy that they could have a tenuous friendship, slowly building up from the rubble of his paranoia.

Melanie had quit, after Jon had told everyone how they could. He was glad she was safe with Georgie. They even got updates every once in a while, how the healing process was going, learning braille, anniversaries, anything about the Admiral.

It was nice. Being Stranger almost made him fonder.


End file.
